"I must ask you if you have anything of importance to say, Jabez, to say it and go. My husband will be home directly. He must not find you here."
"And why not, pray? You can introduce me as your old friend, Harry Maxwell—that's my name now. Thank the Lord Jabez is dead and buried for ever."
"You think so?" said Miriam, with a searching look and dropping her voice. "I should not advise you to be too sure about that. There is always the possibility of his being dug up, and then all the fine clothes in the world won't disguise him."
The man drew his hand across his throat with a significant expression.
"Not much fear of that," he replied, "especially with this beard. I flatter myself it's rather a neat growth." He stroked his chin complacently.
She pointed to his high bald forehead, on which was scarred a purple cicatrice—evidently the result of some terrible blow.
"That alone is always enough to betray you," she said in a whisper. "Jabez, it was sheer madness for you to return to this country. Remember Mother Mandarin knows everything."
"Oh, the old girl's right enough. I always take jolly good care to keep her in good tune. Besides, if it comes to that, I know enough about her to make it pretty hot for her. But you don't ask me what I've been doing, Miriam—I should have thought you'd have taken a bit of interest in a chap, especially when he's done as well as I have. The Cape's treated me pretty well all round, and I've come home with a tidy sum, I can tell you."
"Honestly, Jabez?"
"Rather—led a dog's life though to get it. I went shares in a claim with a pal. We struck gold, and struck it pretty rich, in no time—in fact, my luck changed as soon as ever I turned my back on this old country. I left my pal out there to look after our little patch; he's a good sort, and I shall be off out again to join him in a couple of months. Perhaps it is a bit risky my knocking about in a free and easy way like this; but to tell you the truth, Miriam, I got such a twist on me for the old place, that I had to pack up my traps and come just for a mouch round. I'm not really afraid. That old affair of mine is pretty stale now—shouldn't wonder even if they'd forgotten all about it by this time."
"That business—perhaps, Jabez, though I don't think so. But they are after you for another now!"
The man stopped twisting his red moustache, and stared at her in genuine consternation.
"What do you mean? What other? There's no other that I know of! 'Pon my soul, Miriam, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mr. Barton was strangled in his house at Lesser Thorpe the night after I met you by the church and gave you twenty pounds!"
"Yes; I heard that. It was in the papers a few days after. But what has that to do with me?"
"Can't you guess?" cried Miriam vehemently. "They suspect you of the murder!"
He jumped from the sofa, and looked round wildly.
"Is—is my—do they know my name?" he asked harshly.
"No; that is, they know your first name, not your other. They think it's 'Tracey'—Jabez Tracey. I told them so."
"Go on; what description have they?"
"Small and dark, in fact in every respect the opposite of what you are. About to leave, I said, for New York, via Liverpool. Oh, Jabez, you don't know how hard it was to do it, but I did it to screen you—to keep you safe!"
"How on earth did you get at them?—how did they come to suspect me?"
"We were followed, and our conversation overheard that night in the churchyard. I knew it was dangerous, Jabez, I told you so. Mrs. Darrow hated me. It was she who did it. She listened to everything hidden away somewhere. She taxed me to my face with being implicated in the murder of Mr. Barton and the theft of his will. So I thought it best to go straight to Inspector Prince at Southampton, and put the whole thing before him. I told him how I had met you, and even what you had said—that you would kill Mr. Barton if he interfered with you. I knew she would make capital out of that. But I made it quite clear to him that you had had no provocation from Mr. Barton, and of course from the description I gave of you I knew they were not very likely to find you."
"You don't believe I killed him, Miriam?"
"No, dear, I never did. But that woman heard you say you would."
"Yes; if he had interfered with me I believe I would, but he didn't. I never thought any more about him till I saw the account of the affair in the papers."
"You did go back to London, then?"
"Yes; you got the letter I wrote you from the Docks?"
"I did; but a day or two afterwards I saw you on the platform at Southampton Station. Don't deny it, Jabez; I know it was you!"
"Why should I deny it? As a matter of fact, I missed the boat I intended working my way out in. She swung out on the early morning tide, after they had told me she wouldn't be leaving till the evening. So I got back to Southampton as sharp as I could, and booked a steerage berth on one of the Union boats. But about the murder of that old man, Miriam, I swear to you I know absolutely nothing."
"I believe you, Jabez. Nevertheless, in the face of the evidence, and your—your past history, it might go badly with you for all that if they were to catch you. Oh dear, I am perfectly terrified when I think of it! Good Heavens, what's that? I'm so nervous I can hardly contain myself this morning." They could hear the front door open and someone enter the hall.
"Quick, it's Gerald, I expect—my husband. What is it you call yourself?—Harry Maxwell? Very well, remember we are old friends."
He nodded, and took a seat with his back to the window. The door opened to admit not Gerald Arkel but Major Dundas. Smart and well-groomed as ever, he came forward and shook Miriam by the hand.
"My wife and I are up in town for a few days with Dicky," he said, "so I just dropped in to ask you when she might bring the boy round, Mrs. Arkel; he is so anxious to see you again."
"Dear little fellow—I shall love to see him. But let me introduce Mr. Maxwell—my friend, Major Dundas."
The two men turned towards each other. As their eyes met Jabez winced, and a puzzled expression came across the Major's face.
"Surely," he said, "I can't help thinking we have met before, Mr. Maxwell, I seem to know your face, I——"
"If so, you have the advantage of me, sir; I cannot say yours is familiar to me. It's quite possible, though, we may have come across each other at the Cape."
"I was never at the Cape," replied Major Dundas bluntly.
"Then I fear our acquaintance must date from to-day, Major, for I've been out there for about fifteen years, and have only just got back. I'm sorry." Then he turned towards Miriam. "Good-bye, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I'm afraid I must be going now. I have to lunch with some people a little way out, and I have not much more than time to get there. I'll wish you good-day, Major Dundas."
"I must let you out, Mr. Maxwell; my maid-of-all-work is hardly presentable, I——"
"Oh, please don't trouble——"
In the passage she whispered hurriedly in his ear,
"Do you know him?"
"No, not to my knowledge—seems to know me though!"
"Where can I find you if necessary?"
"Mother Mandarin's."
"Still at that loathsome place? Do go to a decent hotel!"
"I am at one, thank you; but Mother M.'s will be sufficient address for you. I shan't come here again. Good-bye."
In the drawing-room the Major, looking out of the window and twisting his moustache, was indulging in a brown study.
"I've met that man before, or I'm a Dutchman," he mumbled. "'Tisn't a face I should be likely to forget—that red hair and moustache, and those shifty, ferrety eyes; and that scar on the forehead too—that fixes it. Where the deuce was it? Strange I can't place the man for the moment."
His soliloquy was interrupted by the return of Miriam. He did not think it necessary to make any mention to her of what was in his mind. She took her seat beside him and settled down for a chat. It was the first time he had been to see her since her marriage. But he felt in
nowise embarrassed, and the pleasure he had always taken in her society came back strongly upon him. It had not taken him many months of married life to discover that he had drawn blank in the matrimonial lottery. And he wondered whether she had been more fortunate. He rather fancied not. He was well aware that he had been caught on the rebound by Mistress Hilda—in fact, that he had let himself go, caring but little with what result. As lord of the manor it was in every way more convenient that he should be married, and although he was by no manner of means a selfish man, his own convenience counted for a good deal with the Major. He had always been accustomed to take life easily. The Manor House and everything with it had come to him most unexpectedly, and more or less it had forced him into matrimony. Since he could not have the wife of his choice, the next best thing he thought was to be the man of his wife's choice. And there was no denying that Hilda was an attractive and in many respects an engaging little lady. So it came to pass.
But with her—Miriam—it had been different. She had married Gerald in preference to himself. To her lot had fallen that which every woman craves—the ability to marry the man of her choice. Yet surely those were lines of care and trouble upon her beautiful face! She did not look happy.
"Now I really think I ought to scold you, Major," she said, "for having kept yourself away so long. Do you know this is the first time you have called upon us since—since we came here? However, now you are here you will stop to luncheon. Gerald will be in directly. He will be so glad to see you and have a chat."
"I don't know so much about that, Mrs. Arkel. You must not misunderstand what I am going to say, but in a manner I took some responsibility in introducing Gerald to his firm. It was not, therefore, very pleasant for me to hear complaints of him when I called there the other day. I had intended dropping in to see you alone one day during the week, but something turned up to prevent me. You know, this sort of thing won't do. Can't you put it to him pretty strongly? You are the only person I know who ever had any influence with him; and they gave me to understand pretty clearly that if it went on Mr. Gerald would have to go."
"My dear Major, I have tried; if you only knew how I have tried. But he is getting beyond me altogether again. I can do nothing with him lately."
"Is he really drinking hard?"
"What he takes would, as he says himself, be nothing to some men. But the least drop makes him like a lunatic. You know what an excitable brain he has."
"I know; I know. I am more than sorry for you, for if you cannot hold him, no one can. What a big mistake it all is. If only——" He checked himself and looked at her, and saw the tears were in her eyes. That was too much for him. "At all events, you know whatever happens I will never see you in any trouble. We are always friends. More than that we might have been if you had——"
She stopped him. "My husband and I are one, and must stand or fall together, Major. I took his life on my shoulders of my own free will. You are more than good; but——" she broke off, and withdrew her hand which he had taken in his. "But come, tell me about Dicky. How is he?—a tremendous boy, I hope. When will you bring him?"
"I shall not bring him at all," replied the Major a trifle resentfully. "Hilda hopes to come with him if it is quite convenient to you to-morrow afternoon."
"Hilda!—well, I shall be delighted to see her, of course. I didn't think for one moment she would care to come——" She stopped suddenly, for the Major had risen abruptly to his feet. "Good gracious, Major, whatever is the matter?"
"I beg your pardon," he said, looking a trifle abashed, "but the fact is—I—I have just remembered where I saw that man. My mind has been running upon him ever since he left the room."
"Man?—what man?"
"Your friend Mr. Maxwell—that is, I hope he is not your friend, Mrs. Arkel, because I feel it is my duty to tell you he is a thorough-paced scoundrel!"
"Major—why, what do you know of him?"
"This, for one thing—he deserted from my regiment six years ago. It will be my duty now to have the scamp arrested."
"No; no—don't do that. I beg of you—I implore you; don't do that!"
"Why, Mrs. Arkel, who—what is this man to you?"
She shook her head, and buried her face in her hands.
"I must tell you; yes, I must tell you," she moaned. "Don't have him arrested, Major, for he is my brother—my unhappy brother!"
* * *
CHAPTER III.
MRS. PARSLEY'S PROTÉGÉ.
It was with unfeigned amazement that Major Dundas heard Miriam's revelation. He recalled now the man's military career, and he marvelled at her relationship with him only the more as he did so. She would have confided in him further he knew, but at that moment her husband's key grated in the lock, and it was all the distraught woman could do to compose herself.
"Not a word about him to Gerald," she whispered hurriedly. "I can trust you—he knows nothing. I will tell you everything later on." How much later on it was to be Miriam little thought then.
For two years she had enjoyed comparative immunity from trouble—trouble, that is of the kind with which she had for so long been beset. But, heralded by this reappearance of Jabez, there was to come upon her a long list of disasters, following so close one upon the other, that in comparison Jabez and his misdeeds dwindled into insignificance.
"Hullo, Dundas; is it you in the flesh?" said Gerald, shaking the Major by the hand. "How are you?—all right, I hope. And your wife?" Before the Major could answer he had seen Miriam's face in the light. "Why, hullo, old girl, what's up? you've been crying!"
The Major felt a trifle embarrassed, and Miriam flushed as her husband glanced suspiciously from one to the other of them.
"Yes, Gerald, I have been crying about poor little Dicky. Major Dundas seems to fear he will go into a decline. I was so fond of the dear little child. I can't bear to think of his being ill."
"'Gad, you take it to heart a good deal more than his mother does, I'll bet. What's wrong with him, Major?"
"Oh, the child's constitutionally weak. I'm going to take him to Briggs to-morrow—got the greatest faith in Briggs. If he can't put him right none of 'em can. After he's seen him, I'll bring the boy along—in fact, I dropped in to ask your wife if she would be at home. The little chap's dying to see her again."
Advisedly the Major made no mention of Hilda's coming. He knew that if he did so, the office would most certainly not see Gerald all day. And from what he had heard, there had been quite enough of that kind of thing with Mr. Gerald already.
At luncheon they fell to talking of Lesser Thorpe and its shining lights.
"And how is Julia—amiable as ever?" asked Arkel.
"Yes, if anything, rather more so," replied Dundas smiling. "She has, of course, been horribly badly treated according to her own account. It's an extraordinary thing how Julia always is badly treated, and more extraordinary how she not only manages to survive, but actually fattens on it!"
"Jove! I wish I had one half as good a time," grumbled Gerald. "She gets her three hundred a year without doing a hand's turn for it. I've got to slave like a nigger for mine."
"'A judgment on you' says Julia, 'for all your wickedness.'"
"Wickedness?—well, upon my soul, I like that. She's evidently lost none of her feline and back-biting propensities. I wish everyone had done as little in the way of wickedness, as she calls it, as I have—what do you say, Miriam?"
"Well, Gerald; I agree it is not quite the word I should use to describe your shortcomings. Wickedness implies deliberation. No, I don't think your worst enemy could call you deliberately wicked."
"Enemy? I haven't got any, my dear—your husband is the most popular of men."
Miriam made no reply.
"Tell me, Major," she said, "how is Mrs. Parsley? I haven't heard from her for ages. She and I used to be such good friends—she was always kind to me."
"Another old cat," interpolated Gerald.
"Oh, she's much the same," replied the Major; "medd
lesome and well-meaning and good-hearted as ever. She's always most happy, you know, when she's got some philanthropic scheme in hand. Her last fad is really funny. She's got hold of a young street Arab, and has taken him in tow. Her idea is, I believe, to educate him and then send him amuck amongst his fellow-Arabs, in the hope that he may exude the Gospel—sort of spreading by contagion idea, you know."
"Lord, that's just like her. Where did she get hold of the urchin?"
"Well, they say she found him begging in the village. Little devil ought to be in a reformatory. I gave him some weeding to do round my place to oblige her, of course, but I couldn't stand the sight of him—preferred the weeds, so I sent him off. But he seems to have got round the old lady properly; and what's more, he's pocketing a good deal of her money, unless I'm very much mistaken. Oh, he's a sharp young beggar!"
"But you don't mean to say she trusts him with money?" asked Miriam. It was not like Mrs. Parsley, as she remembered her, to do that.
"Oh, I suppose the whole affair's a mere trifle. I only mentioned it to show how wrong-headed she is. This sort of indiscriminate charity does such a lot of harm."
"She's as obstinate as a mule," put in Gerald. He hated the vicar's wife, she having snubbed him somewhat severely on one or two occasions. Indeed, it was only to the fact of her having married Gerald that Miriam could put down Mrs. Parsley's neglect of her since she had been in London.
"And what is this precious brat's name?" he asked.
Dundas looked puzzled.
"Upon my word, I don't believe he had a proper name in the first instance. Anyway, if he had, the vicar suppressed it. You know how cracked he is on Hebrew symbolism. Well, I suppose he saw a good chance here of indulging in it, so what do you think he christened the chap? Gideon Anab! Upon my soul he did! Gideon Anab! for a gutter whelp like that!"
"Construe, Major."
"Well, I believe it means 'one who breaks asunder'—so the old man says. I told him to look out for himself, or the chap might try and live up to it. No, by the way, that's the meaning of 'Gideon' only. Anab means thick, round. Well, he is thick and round now—thanks to plenty to eat and nothing to do. Of course the whole thing is perfectly crazy."
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